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Fast Life in the Slow Lane
Scrunched in our sleeping bags with just our noses peeping out, the morning dawned crisp and clear. We shook the ice off our fly, packed, and pedalled off slowly (not wanting to create a wind-chill). We followed the placid river past an ancient stone-arch bridge, then turned onto a small road leading up the mountain to the town of Sartène. Straining our way up and up, it wasn't long before a patchwork quilt of tiny farms lay far below us, specked with herds of grazing sheep, goats, and cows. Old folk, working in modest hillside yards, returned our waves and cheery "Bonjour!" with tanned arms and toothy enthusiasm. "Surely," I said to Sharon, "they don't seem the type to shoot free-camping tourists." We entered Sartène through its back door, and stopped alongside a water station where a spigot protruded from the granite. As I filled my bottle with the numbingly cold water, I read a sign forbidding the washing of cars and clothes. I thought it comical -- until I realized some households didn't even have running water. That wasn't so funny. I stood there watching the lineup of people filling containers, feeling ashamed for having taken hot running water for granted all my life. We pedalled into downtown Sartène. An impeccably dressed business woman stopped her car, rolled down her window, and chatted with us. It suddenly struck me: These people had something more precious than running water. They had time. And they used that time to interact with others, to share the joys of small events, to be civil and, ultimately, human. The woman pointed to a building down the street. In halting English, she invited us to come and visit if we were going to be in town a while. "I'm the bossy lady," she stated proudly, oblivious to her misuse of English, and cheerily waved goodbye. I would have visited our new friend... if I hadn't been in such an all-fire hurry, so intent on cycling to a lower, hopefully warmer, elevation. I hadn't yet caught the islanders' pace. I hadn't yet slowed my fast-forward existence enough to appreciate the rhythm of life that breathed all around me, but, so far, not in me. As I cruised along the quiet byway out of Sartène, I started to wonder: Where did I think I had to go? Time. I started thinking it was time I started thinking about that paradox we call time. I noticed that the faster I went, the faster time passed. It just flitted away, day after day, week after week... pretty soon it was Christmas again. I was so preoccupied in rushing from place to place, appointment to appointment (all the while complaining I never had enough hours in a day), I didn't have time for living. But Corsica was showing me that it could be different. I saw people who still walked to get their water. I saw people who still talked with one another. They still had time to share. They still had time to laugh. They still had time to live. They were living life in the slow lane. And it didn't look all that bad. |
| "I really, truly loved
the book! Lots of laughing out loud, and so descriptive I felt
like I was there. The sit back and enjoy the moment feel of the
book is very much in tune with our current efforts to slow down,
be more mindful, enjoy life, etc." Lisa Koebel |
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